


Wardrobe Upgrade

by doxian



Series: Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014 [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2014, Makeover, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/pseuds/doxian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember when Kanaya decided she'd had enough of Sollux dressing like they'd gotten their clothes out of a garbage can and gave them a swanky makeover?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wardrobe Upgrade

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this br1 prompt](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/18819.html?thread=3267971#cmt3267971). 
> 
> May or may not have been inspired by a few nonbinary Sollux headcanons I've seen floating around Tumblr; [this piece of fanart](http://nbstuck.tumblr.com/post/85577769639/aaaahhh-i-hope-i-have-done-this-excellent) specifically.

It's been only half an hour since they've arrived and clacking and clanking noises are already emanating from your study as they tinker with one of your husktops. 

That hadn't been the first thing they'd started doing after sticking their frond nub in your front door, of course. The first thing you'd done was hug for an embarrassingly long time. You're very aware of your need to run your hands over their limbs and shoulders after you've been apart, almost as if to check if they were really all there in one piece. A silly habit, perhaps, but they can be so _unhealthy_ in their living habits that sometimes you half-expect them to turn up on your hivestep with a part of themself missing. 

"KN, when was the last time you upgraded your OS?" they call, accusingly. 

You have absolutely no clue. You vaguely recall seeing various pop-up messages reminding you that you needed to install this or update that, but you'd ignored most of them. 

"I believe I can't remember!" you yell back at them.

You've gotten them set up in your spare room. While they fuss over the state of your biotechnological devices, you open the diminutive backpack they've brought and begin setting the contents into drawers, yawning. You'd woken up much earlier than usual for their arrival - it's not even dawn yet - since they can't bear the rays of the sun like you can, and so had travelled here during the night time. 

It only takes you a few minutes to finish unpacking everything they've brought. You frown at the paltry handful of garments - a few ratty pairs of jeans that you _swear_ are the exact same design, a skirt with more holes in it than their matesprit's, a couple of faded T-shirts, one of which has a hole in the armpit, and a pile of socks that look like someone grabbed them out of the bargain bin at the caegar store - all mismatched, of course.

This just won't do. 

"Sollux," you stride into the study, throwing their question back at them, "when was the last time you upgraded your wardrobe?"

They look up from where they're now guts-deep in your poor husktop. They've taken their glasses off, and you're still blindsided by how arrestingly pathetic they look without them on - their sclera-less eyes all wide and glowing.

"What?" they say eloquently in response, wrinkling their snout at you. "I don't know. Why? Your batterybug needs replacing, too, by the way, didn't you notice how dimly its flickering? I swear to god, KN, if the Empire required licenses to own biotronics like it does for personal miniships, yours would be revoked." 

You don't let their grousing - which they're clearly enjoying - distract you. You are a troll on a mission, and you will not be deterred.

"And if there were a license for wearing clothes, then _yours_ would also be rescinded," you retort. Sollux blinks at you. It's only when the words leave your squawk blister that you realize how weird you sound, but, again, your aptitude at verbal tussles with your moirail is not the point of focus, here. 

That's how you end up rummaging through the back of your closet for last perigee's fashions. You may have gotten bored of them, but they're still in mint condition and, if you remember correctly, there are a few pieces you think they'd like. Anything too uncomfortably fitted and too extravagantly embellished, they're sure to hate, but no one ever said you needed to go over the top to look nice.

You manage to pull Sollux away from the study long enough to thrust an armful of clothes at them. They end up favouring the slouchy black dress from when stylish minimalism and careful draping was still in style, just like you predicted, you note with pride.

Once they've donned the dress, you insist on fixing their hair and doing their make-up, too - teasing their hair into a softer style with sculpting clay, dusting their face with silvery powder, adding black eyeliner and lipstick. You're sure they're only putting up with this because they like the feeling of your fingers in their hair and ghosting over their cheeks, if the gentle purring is any indication. (You may be touching their face more than is strictly necessary.) 

They start to lose patience once you get to the eyeliner - they keep fidgeting and as a result what _should_ have been a neat, clean line is a little uneven on one eye, but you count it as a win that you're able to get them to sit down and let you fuss over them for this long to begin with. (Besides, the asymmetry of it will probably annoy them enough that they'll ask you to fix it later anyway.)

"There," you say, capping the eyeliner with a flourish. "What do you think? Isn't that better?"

They consider themself in your dressing table mirror, smoothing their fingers over the subtle, embroidered jade accents on the dress, a slight mustard flush on their cheeks.

"...Yeah, KN. Thanks."

They aren't careful enough with their lipstick when they kiss you on the cheek, smudging it and leaving you with an unsightly black smear on your face that you can't bring yourself to wipe off.

They shoot down your bright idea of ceremonially burning a few of their older, beyond-salvageable shirts in your garden, but when their visit comes to an end they leave with their backpack full of items from your closet and your make-up drawer.

**Author's Note:**

> [Remixed here](http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/23600.html?thread=7364656#cmt7364656) by spockandawe!


End file.
